The God Delusion
by Amberdreams
Summary: The only way for Sam to remove a God-level curse? Why, he'd have to become God... Warnings: Open ended, Gen-slashy, swearing, spoilers for episodes to date, unbeta'd


**The God Delusion**

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**Warnings**: Open ended, Gen-slashy, spoilers for episodes to date, unbeta'd

**Summary**: The only way for Sam to remove a God-level curse? Why, he'd have to become God...

Fill for thursdaysisters's prompt on citrusjava's Episode 17 meme - way late, and therefore now influenced by Episode 18 too.

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Sam had lied and hidden things from Dean, he'd allied with the most questionable of people, alive and dead – he'd tried everything possible to save Dean, and it had all come to nothing. Worse than nothing, it had blown up in his face, and now he had a bitter pill to swallow. Find a way to kill his brother when the Mark finally consumed him, as it inevitably would, or attempt the impossible.

As failure was not an option, Sam was contemplating the impossible route.

How do you become God? Not _a_ god, not some minor divinity from a long dead religion, not a stronger, more solid object of worship from a different culture, but the God that most Americans and a good proportion of the globe worshipped, and who Sam knew had gone missing decades ago. The absentee father, the arch manipulator, the Deity With a Plan who hadn't the cojones to see it through – that God. How to become a replacement for Him?

Castiel had done it, and it had driven him mad. Now Sam sat in the Bunker library in the middle of the night, surrounded by the hoarded learning of a secret, dead organisation, contemplating the manufacture of his own Godhood.

Through the open doors and empty corridors, Sam heard Dean scream his name.

Heart thumping, Sam was on his feet and moving before the echoes died, but this time, his footsteps didn't carry him to Dean's room. Instead, Sam found himself opening the door to one of the vaults.

He was really doing this.

:::

Dean woke with a sudden convulsion that had him sitting bolt upright in the sodden, tangled mess of bedding for the third time that week. The room smelled of stale alcohol, bitter sweat and fear, and he couldn't stand it. He couldn't stand himself.

He wiped his face with his hand, grimacing at the cold sweat that covered it, covered him. His shirt was soaked with it. The bunker's mysteriously climate-controlled air chilled his skin so all the fine hairs rose as he shivered. He glanced at the retro clock Sam had bought him last Christmas. Four AM. Great. He knew from experience there was no way he'd get back to sleep now, and, to be honest, the idea of sleeping wasn't that appealing anyway. Not with the kind of dreams he'd been having lately.

Dreams that had him waking up frantically checking his shaking hands were clean, and that Sam was still breathing.

May as well get a shower and get dressed then, after he'd looked in on Sam. There was always research to do, cases to find.

Dean wandered out into the corridors, barefoot and careless in his sweaty shirt and boxers. He would pick up a dead-man's robe in the shower room. Except he never got that far, arrested by the sight of Sam's very empty, too tidy bed.

:::

Sam opened eyes he didn't remember closing.

The first thing he saw was blood, a lot of blood. It was smeared in patterns on the walls and on the floor around him. The air was thick with its scent – metallic and earthy. He was lying on his left side on the floor, his left arm out-stretched with the sleeve rolled up, so he could clearly see the deep gashes running the length of his too-pale forearm. So that explained the blood then, though not what he'd been doing to get it everywhere, or why he was lying on the ground now.

He didn't feel any pain – he was neither cold nor warm, lying there on the bare concrete. Surely he should be feeling something? Those cuts looked deep, and there was so much blood. What had he been thinking? Dean was going to kill him, if Sam hadn't already killed himself with these injuries. The thought of Dean sent a spark through Sam's lethargy, igniting a fire in his belly that spread swiftly through his bones.

He sat up too quickly, then had to close his eyes as the room dipped and swayed like that flight simulator Dean made him try when they worked the circus case in Wisconsin. The blood that remained inside his body fizzed as if Dean had dropped pop rocks into his coke, while the rational part of his brain told him that this was not what blood loss felt like.

Blood loss never felt this fucking _good_.

:::

Dean had followed the smell more than anything else, some instinct making him sniff the still air inside the Bunker, like a bloodhound tracking a fugitive. The Mark, at least, was intimately familiar with the heavy scent of blood, and it drew Dean through the sterile tiled passages to the lower levels where the dungeon was, surrounded by storeroom after storeroom. He stopped outside one anonymous door that looked the same as all the rest. The smell was strongest here, and Dean's hand trembled as he reached out to open the door.

Red.

It was all he could see. The floor, the walls, even the ceiling was smeared with it. So much blood.

Too much blood.

Dean's knees trembled and he had to grab hold of the doorframe to hold himself upright. It was several moments – that felt even longer – before he could see past the fear that choked him and obscured his vision.

Although it was hard to focus, not everything in the room was red.

Sam stood in the centre of the floor and he was incandescent as the heart of a star.

:::

Sam remembered Death holding his soul in that skeletal hand, how it had felt when his essence had been thrust back into his chest, how it had hurt like nothing else had ever done. The pain had been indescribable. Broken bones, torn ligaments, the poisoned bite of the hydra he and Dean had killed when Sam was seventeen, none of them compared. Not even the torments Lucifer and Michael had inflicted on him in the Cage had come close to the sensation of his own soul returning to its true home.

If he'd allowed himself to think about it, he would have supposed that becoming God would hurt worse than that. He'd taken a leaf out of Dean's book though, and refused to think at all. He'd researched and he'd acted on what he'd found, because if he'd taken time to consider, he might have been too afraid to go through with it.

He tossed his head back, relishing the flow of power the motion set off, and laughed. Light dripped from the tips of his fingers, droplets sprayed from the ends of his hair like water. It felt so good. It was the crescendo of an orgasm, the highest high, it was every clichéd description of ecstasy he'd ever read, and it was almost enough to make him forget the reason he was here, why he'd risked so much.

Almost.

Sam could feel Dean's approach, could taste the bitter anxiety rolling off his brother in waves. He knew the exact length of time that Dean hesitated outside the door, was aware of every tremor in Dean's body as he stepped into the room. Only then did Sam turn around, smiling.

"Don't worry, Dean," he said, "everything's going to be alright now."

:::

The fear hadn't let up just because Dean could see that by some miracle Sam was alive, in spite of all that blood – and if it wasn't Sam's, whose was it? The fear kept its grip on Dean's throat, crushing his larynx and squeezing his windpipe tight so only a tiny amount of air could pass through, because Sam was burning with the kind of white light Dean associated with angels, and his little brother's smile was terrifying. It left after-images in flares of orange on Dean's eyelids when the light got so bright he was forced to close his eyes or go blind.

Yet it still sounded like his Sam telling him everything was going to be okay.

_Stealing my lines, Sammy. Next you'll be telling me we can fix this._

"There's nothing to be fixed, Dean," Sam said, and wait a goddamned minute, did Sam just read his mind? Dean was distracted from that scary idea when Sam carried on with a rather chilling qualification to his previous statement. "Nothing to fix except you, I mean."

Sam was close enough for the puff of his breath to caress Dean's cheek, making Dean start and open his eyes again.

Instantly he wished he hadn't.

Sam was right up inside Dean's space, worse than Cas on a bad day, and though the midday-sun-glare had lessened, Sam's eyes still glowed, silver and unearthly. Dean's gaze slid away from that disturbing sight, only to catch on another random anomaly.

"Holy shit, your hair's gone white!"

Dean hadn't meant to speak at all, hadn't thought he could get anything out, let alone a stupid comment on Sam's freaky white hair, but the words punched out of him as he took in Sam's altered appearance.

_What the hell?_ That wasn't the weirdest thing about this whole cluster-fuck, but somehow, that was what his brain wanted to point out to the world. Go figure.

Sam didn't seem to hear him though, which was odd, since seconds ago his brother appeared to read Dean's thoughts just fine. Instead Sam leant in closer and inhaled, like Dean was some sort of tasty burger or something.

"Dude, did you just sniff me?" Indignation momentarily swept away Dean's fear. He tried to back away, but Sam was having none of it, he just followed Dean step for step until Dean's back was up against the wall – sticky with blood still, which was just _ew_ – and there was nowhere Dean could go.

"I can smell it, Dean. The Mark. It's hungry."

_No shit, Sherlock._

Like Dean didn't know that already. Since touching the Book of the Damned – and wasn't that too fucking appropriate to be ironic – the Mark had moved from being an annoying background hum to the roar of an out-of-control forest fire. It turned Dean's blood to molten larva, and burned all the time. Nothing quenched it; the Stein gang's deaths had barely dimmed the flames for a few moments. Its voice had gone from a whisper Dean could keep at a distance to the tones of a giant bell, with Dean standing in the tower next to it like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, waiting to be driven mad.

Looks like while Dean was waiting for the crazy to hit, Sam had gone on ahead.

:::

Dean's emotions were loud. Chaotic. Sam could hear and see and smell everything. Every electrical impulse, every current in Dean's blood, the way the Mark threaded through Dean's substance in an intricate pattern that the old Sam would have gotten lost in. New Sam will not have that problem.

"Sammy, what did you do?" Dean was frowning, his expression set in what old Sam recognised as Dean's worried big brother face.

New Sam, however, preferred to work without distractions. He certainly had no desire for a conversation about this. He reached out and touched Dean's forehead.

:::

Sam was looking at Dean with the dispassionate curiosity of a scientist examining an interesting specimen, possibly one he was about to dissect. It freaked Dean out.

"Sammy, what did you do?" Dean croaked.

Sam's only answer was to touch Dean's forehead, the gentlest of touches, and bind Dean easier than any demon had ever done. He couldn't move or speak, and even his thoughts seemed to slow down, each one getting caught in a cooling lava flow until all he had left was an inarticulate dread.

"There," Sam said, his dimpled smile sunny and serene. "That's better."

Dean didn't think it was better, not even slightly. Not only was Sam behaving like he was possessed, now Sam had done whatever this binding was, Dean was gradually becoming aware of another presence in the room with them. Or rather, the Mark was sensing it, not Dean.

Recognition when it hit was as chilling as a bucket of icy water in the face.

_Goddammit_, Dean should have known, should have read the signals in Sam's body language, seen the guilt in his brother's eyes, but he'd been too caught up in Cas getting his grace back and healing Charlie, and fighting against the fucking Mark – it had all put him off his game and he'd missed the blindingly obvious.

The Book of the Damned.

Sam hadn't burned it after all.

:::

Sam tipped his head on one side and considered his brother's anguished expression with some compassion. Maybe it was time to explain, put Dean out of his obvious misery. For all his outward joviality and bravado, Dean was a fatalist at heart, and, true to form, every thought still able to pass through his head was coming up with worst-case scenarios, one after the other.

A typical soldier, his brother – telling himself he's ready to die at any moment, yet not ready at all. Well, that was okay, because Sam wasn't going to allow Dean to die. Not today, maybe – and he stilled for a moment as the seductive thought slipped through his mind – maybe never.

"It's okay, Dean."

Sam had felt it the moment realisation hit Dean, when he recognised the siren call of the Book of the Damned. For a second Sam considered destroying the book in front of Dean, so Dean could see it was done this time – then he shook his head. No. There was no need to destroy the book when he was about to take away the reason the evil thing bothered Dean so much – the Mark of Cain.

"The Book can't harm you now. It can't harm anyone unless I allow it." Sam started to pace. The room felt small, confining. The power was itching under Sam's skin and awareness of everything outside the Bunker was starting to agitate Sam's nerves. He could feel the movement of the air in the trees that surrounded the hill, the way the tree roots twisted down into the earth, the sap flowing underneath the bark. He could track the movement of the birds waking up hungry in the early pre dawn light, ready to chase insects and find grubs. He could even feel the slow movement of the earthworms burrowing through the hill.

He needed to get this done quickly, so he could concentrate on letting this power go before it changed him so completely there was no going back. He'd never intended this to be permanent, yet already he was entertaining thoughts about what he could do with power like this. Close the gates of Hell forever, without anyone having to die. End wars, stop genocides, famines, human suffering – fix everything.

The idea seduced him. Sam Winchester – erstwhile hunter, demon blood child, apocalypse-starter – suddenly imbued with the power to save the world. He could make everything right. He could bring back Bobby, Dad, Mom. Everyone who had ever died because of his failings, he could restore them all…

"Sam?"

Sam came back to himself at the touch of Dean's hand on his shoulder. Somehow he'd fallen to his knees in the centre of the symbols he'd painted on the floor in his blood only a matter of hours ago. The Book of the Damned was within touching distance of his left hand. He shuddered.

"What happened?"

"I don't know, man. You just zoned out on me and then I could move again." Dean gripped Sam tighter, his expression a mask of neutrality even while his mind was a screaming maelstrom of feelings – the call of the book, the burn of the Mark, his worry about Sam. "Don't you fucking mind whammy me again, Sammy," Dean grouched as he helped Sam to his feet. "It fucking sucks."

Sam appreciated the attempt at normality, but he made no promises. He knew Dean noticed his lack of response – it didn't matter. He couldn't put this off any longer.

It was time to make this whole possible cluster-fuck worthwhile.

Sam leaned into Dean and kissed him into shocked silence.

:::

When Sam's lips brushed his, Dean heard his heart stop. All the air left his lungs, sucked out of Dean when Sam breathed in. A drop in pressure in the room made Dean's ears pop, and that was when the Mark ignited. It had been slow magma, all deep heat crusted over into rough broken pieces that scraped his insides raw. Now it erupted throughout his body – a pyroclastic flow of poisoned gasses and molten glass that threatened to consume him. The moisture that leaked from his eyes crystalised like pele tears. He closed his eyes but the world still burned white hot.

If Sam hadn't stolen all his air he'd have screamed.

:::

Salt.

He recognises the smell first – something familiar when everything else is weird. There's a low, rhythmic, grinding sound that he can't quite place, but which is rather soothing. It's coming from somewhere not very distant from where he's lying. The ground underneath him is uneven but strangely comfortable. His fingers flex by his sides and find fine sand, and he digs into the softness, enjoying the silky sensation. The air that brushes up his body, lifting all the fine hairs on his legs and torso, is warm and moist, and carries that salt smell with it.

He's naked, but unconcerned about it, because he assumes he must be dead. He doesn't bother to open his eyes. If he's dead, this time he'll stay dead, and therefore has an eternity to worry about his surroundings. Wherever he is, it isn't Hell, or Purgatory, and that's all that matters.

A thought flits across his mind that there's something else that matters, something important, but it flees before he can fasten onto it.

He counts the nameless rhythms of the shifting sands as the waves come and go, ebb and flow. He's at the seaside, and that's significant, somehow, though he has no idea why.

He waits.

What he's waiting for, he doesn't know or care. He's empty, hollowed out and perfectly content.

Seagulls wail like lost souls overhead.

He waits.


End file.
